Girl Stuff – Jokes – Stories

We start to “bud” in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find anything that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts so bad it brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra contraption the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on our backs.

Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along with those budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, have to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn’t even know we had.

Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for the first time which is about as much fun as having a ramrod push your uterus through your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn’t end up with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what all the fuss was about.

Then it’s off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers and water for a few months so we don’t spend the entire day leaning over Brother John.

Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learn to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we’re having Rosemary’s Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we swallowed a watermelon whole and we pee our pants every time we sneeze.

When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions will invariably burst right in the middle of the shopping, and we’ll waddle with our big cartoon feet moaning in pain all the way to the ER.

Then it’s huff and puff and beg to die while the obstetrician says, “Please stop screaming, Mrs. Hear-me-roar. Calm down and push. Just one more (or10) good push,” warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the bastard (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 lb. bowling ball through a keyhole After that, it’s time to raise those angels only to find that when all that “cute” wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.

The teen years. Need I say more? The kids are almost grown now and we women hit our voracious sexual prime in our mid-30′s to early 40′s, while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th birthday (which just happens to be the reason all that early hot man sex got you pregnant in the first place).

Now we hit the grand finale: “The Menopause,” the grandmother of all womanhood. It’s either take the HRT (hormones) and chance cancer in those now seasoned “buds” or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat like a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off anything that moves. Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men when men get off so easy INCLUDING the icing on life’s cake:

Being able to pee in the woods without soaking their socks…

Now I love being a woman, but “Womanhood” would make the Great Gandhi a tad crabby.

Women are the “weaker sex”? Yeah right!
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“Of course I won’t laugh,” said the nurse. “I’m a professional. In over twenty years I’ve never laughed at a patient.”

“Okay then,” said Fred, and he proceeded to drop his trousers, revealing the smallest male part the nurse had ever seen.

It’s length and width was almost identical to a AAA battery.

Unable to control herself, the nurse tried to stop a giggle, but it just came out. And then she started laughing at the fact that she was laughing.

Feeling very badly that she had laughed at the man’s part, she composed herself as well as she could.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. On my honor as a nurse and a lady, I promise that won’t happen again. Now, tell me, what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s swollen,” Fred replied.

She ran out of the room hysterically laughing.
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One of women’s dilemmas — Getting rid of unwanted hair — One woman’s story

All methods have tricked me with their promises of easy, painless removal: the Epilady, the standard razor, the scissors, the Nair, the EpilStop, and now The Wax.

My night began as any other normal weekday night. I came home, fixed dinner for my family and got everyone settled for the night.

I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next couple hours: maybe I should use that wax in my medicine cabinet.

I made sure no one would need me and I could head for the bathroom in peace.

It was one of those cold wax kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the clear strips in your hand, peel them apart, and press it on your leg (or wherever). No muss, no fuss. How hard can this be? I mean, I’m not the girlish of girls but I’m mechanically inclined so maybe I can figure out how this works.

You’d think.

So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other, stuck together. I’m supposed to rub it in my hand to warm and soften the wax. I go one better. I pull out the hair dryer and heat the SOB to ten thousand degrees.

Cold wax, my ass. (Oh, how that phrase will come back to haunt me).

I lay the strip across my thigh. I hold the skin around it and pull. OK, so it wasn’t the best feeling in the world, but it wasn’t bad.

I can do this! So with my next wax strip, I’ll move north.

After checking on my beloved family again, I sneak into the bathroom for The Ultimate Hair Fighting Championship.

I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I then apply the wax strip across the right side on my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching up into the inside of the right ass cheek. (Yeah, it was a long strip).

I inhale deeply. I brace myself.

RRRIIIIPPP!!!! I’m blind from the pain!

Vision returning. Oh crap. I’ve managed to pull off half an inch of the strip.

Another deep breath. And RIIIP!! Everything is swirly and tie-dyed. Do I hear crashing drums?

OK, coming back to normal again. I want to see my trophy — my wax covered pelt that caused me so much agony. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair.

I hold the wax strip like an Olympic gold medalist. But why is there no hair on it? Why is the wax mostly gone?

Where could the wax go, if not on the strip?

Slowly, I eased my head down, my foot still perched on the toilet.

I see hair — the hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I feel.

I am touching wax.

I look to the ceiling and silently shout. Nooooooo!!

I peel my fingers off the softest, most sensitive part of my body that is now covered in cold wax and matted hair, and make the next big mistake — up until this point, you’ll remember, I’ve had my foot on the toilet.

I know I need to move, to do something.

So I put my foot down on the floor. And then I hear the slamming of the cell door.

Vagina? Sealed shut.

Ass? Sealed shut.

A little voice in my head says, “I hope you don’t have to shit anytime soon. Your head just might pop off.”

I penguin walk around the bathroom trying desperately to figure out what I should do next.

Hot water!

Hot water melts wax! I’ll run the hottest water I can stand and get in.

The wax should melt and I can gently wipe it away, right?

Wrong.

I get in the tub — the water is slightly hotter than is used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment — and I sit.

Now the only thing worse than having your goodies glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of a tub.
In scalding hot water.

Which, by the way, does not melt the cold wax?

So now I’m stuck in the tub — literally!

I call my friend, Liz, because she once dropped out of beauty school so surely she has some secret knowledge or trick to get wax off skin.

It’s never good to start a conversation with “So my ass and vagina are stuck to the tub.”

She wants to know exactly where the wax is on the ass. “Are we talking cheek or hole, here?” she asks. She isn’t even trying to hide the giggles now.

I give her the run-down of the entire night.

She tells me to call the number on the side of the box, but to have a good cover story for where the wax actually is.

“You know that if we were working the help line at XX Wax Co. and somebody called with their entire crack sealed shut we’d just put them on hold then record the conversation for everyone we know. You’re going to end up on a radio show or the internet if you tell them the truth.”

While we go through various solutions, I have resorted to scraping the wax off with a razor.

Boy, nothing feels better to the girlie goodies than covering them in wax, sticking them to a tub in super hot water and THEN dry shaving the sticky wax off!

In the middle of the conversation (which has inexplicably turned to other subjects!) I find the lotion provided with the wax to remove the excess.

I rub some in and start screaming “It’s working! It’s working!”

I get hearty congratulations from Liz and we hang up.

I successfully remove all the wax and notice, to my dismay that the hair is still there.

So I shaved the damned stuff off.

Hell, I was numb by that point anyway.

I put the box of wax back in my medicine cabinet. Never know when a moustache might start to come in.
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How many women with PMS does it take to screw in a light bulb? One.

ONE!! And do you know WHY it only takes ONE? Because no one else in this house knows HOW to change a light bulb. They don’t even know the bulb is BURNED OUT. They would sit in this house in the dark for THREE DAYS before they figured it OUT.

And once they figured it out they wouldn’t be able to find the light bulbs despite the fact that they’ve been in the SAME CUPBOARD for the past SEVENTEEN YEARS.

But if they did, by some miracle, find the light bulbs, TWO DAYS LATER the chair that they dragged from two rooms over to stand on to change the STUPID light bulb would STILL BE IN THE SAME SPOT!!!!!

AND UNDERNEATH IT WOULD BE THE CRUMPLED WRAPPER THE STUPID LIGHT BULBS CAME IN. WHY??? BECAUSE NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE EVER CARRIES OUT THE GARBAGE!!!! IT’S A WONDER WE HAVEN’T ALL SUFFOCATED FROM THE PILES OF GARBAGE THAT ARE 12 FEET DEEP THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE HOUSE. THE HOUSE!! THE HOUSE!!! IT WOULD TAKE AN ARMY TO CLEAN THIS…
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Two informally dressed ladies happened to start up a conversation during an endless wait in the LAX airport.

The first lady was an arrogant California woman married to a wealthy man.
The second was a well-mannered elderly woman from the South.
When the conversation centered on whether they had any children, the California woman started by saying, “When my first child was born, my husband built a beautiful mansion for me.”

The lady from the South commented, “Well, bless your heart.”

The first woman continued, “When my second child was born, my husband bought me a beautiful Mercedes-Benz.

Again, the lady from the South commented, “Well, bless your heart.”

The first woman continued boasting, “Then, when my third child was born, my husband bought me this exquisite diamond bracelet.

Yet again, the Southern lady commented, “Well, bless your heart.”

The first woman then asked her companion, “What did your husband buy for you when you had your first child?”

“My husband sent me to charm school,” declared the Southern lady.

“Charm school?” the first woman cried, “Oh, my God! What on earth for?”

The Southern lady responded, “Well for example, instead of saying “Who gives a shit?” I learned to say, “Well, bless your heart”…
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During the wedding rehearsal, the groom approached the pastor with an unusual offer.

“Look, I’ll give you $100 if you’ll change the wedding vows. When you get to me and the part where I’m to promise to ‘love, honor and obey’ and ‘forsaking all others, be faithful to her forever,’ I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave that part out.” He passed the minister a $100 bill and walked away satisfied.

It is now the day of the wedding, and the bride and groom have moved to that part of the ceremony where the vows are exchanged. When it comes time for the groom’s vows, the pastor looks the young man in the eye and says:

“Will you promise to prostrate yourself before her, obey her every command and wish, serve her breakfast in bed every morning of your life and swear eternally before God and your lovely wife that you will not ever even look at another woman, as long as you both shall live?”

The groom gulped and looked around, and said in a tiny voice, “Yes.”

The groom leaned toward the pastor and hissed, “I thought we had a deal.”

The pastor put the $100 bill into his hand and whispered back, “She made me a much better offer.”
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I recently noticed that the peel-off strip of my pantiliner had a bunch of “Kotex Tips for Life” on it. Annoying advice such as:

- Staying active during your period can relieve cramps.
- Avoiding caffeine may help reduce cramps and headaches.
- Drink 6-8 glasses of water a day to keep you hydrated and feeling fresh.
- Try Kotex blah blah blah other products.

Obviously the person behind this was someone who has never possessed a functioning pair of ovaries. Go ahead and tell a menstruating woman TO HER FACE that drinking 6-8 glasses of water will help keep her feeling fresh. See what happens and report back. I’ll wait here.

While you’re at it, dump out the coffee at work and remove the chocolate from the vending machine. I guaran-damn-tee that the first responders will be females who just ovulated.

Look, females don’t need or want tips for living on feminine hygiene products. Younger girls are already hearing “helpful” crap like that from their elderly relatives. Veteran females have already concocted their own recipes for survival, most containing alcohol.

Printing out shit advice while sneaking in ads for the brand THAT WAS ALREADY PURCHASED is just plain annoying, not to mention rude and enough to send a girl running to the Always brand.

Mostly we’d like to forget that we even need these products. It’s not a fun time, but DO NOT try to cheer us up by adding smiley faces or bunnies or flowery cutesy crap to your products or the packaging.
Put the shit in a plain brown wrapper so we can throw it in our carts discreetly and have it blend in among the wine and beer.

There is nothing more annoying than having a blinding pink package announcing your uterine state to everyone in the damn store. The ultimate goal of your product should be functional invisibility at every stage, including the point of purchase.

So take your tips for living and shove them right up your ass.

(Try drinking six to eight glasses of water to make you feel fresher while you’re doing it!)

Ovarily Yours

Miss PMS
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If you read this without laughing out loud, there is something wrong with you. This is dedicated to everyone who ever attempted to get into a regular workout routine.

Dear Diary,

For my birthday this year, my daughter (the dear) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me.

Although I am still in great shape since being a high school football cheerleader 43 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.

I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Bruce, who identified himself as a 26-year-old an aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear.

My daughter seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started! The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

MONDAY:
Started my day at 6:00 a.m. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Bruce waiting for me. He is something of a Greek god – with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo!! Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring!
Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week-!!

TUESDAY:
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door.
Bruce made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air then he put weights on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. Bruce’s rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel GREAT-!! It’s a whole new life for me.

WEDNESDAY:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn’t try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot.

Bruce was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too loud for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other shit too.

THURSDAY:
Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn’t help being a half an hour late; it took me that long to tie my shoes.
Bruce took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in the restroom. He sent another skinny bitch to find me.

Then, as punishment, he put me on the rowing machine — which I sank.

FRIDAY:
I hate Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, hunky, studly — If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don’t have any triceps! And if you don’t want dents in the floor, don’t hand me the DAMN barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher.

Why couldn’t it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?

SATURDAY:
Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating, sissy voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing him made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.

SUNDAY:
I’m having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my daughter (the little shit) will choose a gift for me that is fun — like a root canal or a hysterectomy. I still say if God had wanted me to bend over, he would have sprinkled the floor with diamonds!!!
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With today’s adults looking for a healthier lifestyle, food and stress are very important to them. We will look first at what food can be added to our diet that will help relieve stress.

The food in question is chocolate. This overlooked food is considered unhealthy, but let’s take a look. Chocolate is made from sugar and cocoa beans with the bean known as a vegetable. Sugar is derived mainly from sugar cane, this would also be in the vegetable category, thus classifying all chocolate as a vegetable. Chocolate-covered raisins, cherries, orange slices and strawberries all count as fruit, and as you well know, you are encouraged to eat as much fruit as you want! To take this one step further, milk chocolate contains milk, which is dairy, therefore, chocolate, in any form, should be considered a health food.

So remember…STRESSED spelled backward is………….

DESSERTS
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While conducting some business at the Court House, I overheard a lady, who had been arrested for assaulting a Mammogram Technician, say, “Your Honor, I’m guilty but…..there were extenuating circumstances.”
The female Judge said, sarcastically, “I’d certainly like to hear those extenuating circumstances.”
I did too so, I listened as the lady told her story.

“Your Honor, I had a mammogram appointment, which I actually kept.
I was met by this perky little clipboard carrier smiling from ear to ear and she tilted her head to one side and crooned, “Hi! I’m Belinda! All I need you to do is step into this room right here, strip to the waist, then slip on this gown. Everything clear?”
I’m thinking, “Belinda, try decaf.
This ain’t rocket science.”
Belinda then skipped away to prepare the chamber of horrors.

With the right side finished, Belinda flipped me (literally) to the left and said, “Hmmmm.
Can you stand on your tippy toes and lean in a tad so we can get everything?”
“Fine,” I answered.
I was freezing, bruised, and out of air, so why not use the remaining circulation in my legs and neck to finish me off? My body was in a holding pattern that defied gravity (with my other breast wedged between those two 4 inch pieces of square glass) when I heard and felt a zap!
Complete darkness, the power was off!
Belinda said, “Uh-oh, maintenance is working, bet they hit a snag.”
Then she headed for the door.

“Excuse me! You’re not leaving me in this vice alone are you?” I shouted.
Belinda kept going and said, “Oh, you fussy puppy…the door’s wide open so you’ll have the emergency hall lights.
I’ll be right back.”

Before I could shout “NOOOO!” She disappeared.
And that’s exactly how Bubba and Earl, “Maintenance Men Extraordinaire”, found me…half-naked with part of me dangling from the Jaws of Life and the other part smashed between glass!

After exchanging a polite “Hi, how’s it going? ” type greeting, Bubba (or possibly Earl) asked, to my utter disbelief, if I knew the power was off.
Trying to disguise my hysteria, I replied with as much calmness as possible, “Uh, yes, I did but thanks anyway.”
“OK, you take care now” Bubba replied and waved good-bye as though I’d been standing in the line at the grocery store.

Two hours later, Belinda breezes in wearing a sheepish grin.
Making no attempt to suppress her amusement, she said, “Oh I am sooo sorry!
The power came back on and I totally forgot about you! And silly me, I went to lunch. Are we upset?”

And that, Your Honor, is exactly how her head ended up between the clamps….”

The judge could hardly contain her laughter as she said “Case Dismissed.”
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THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU…… IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOUR MOTHER YOUR SISTER OR YOUR DAUGHTER….

The strangest thing happened this weekend. I was sitting at a local outdoor cafe having lunch by myself and two men came and sat down at my table…. I gave them the death look, but they just casually stayed at my table and wouldn’t leave me alone. I shined up my ring on my married finger, then placed my hand on the table and I hinted to them that I was married and that I was not interested in them.

Luckily for me they got the hint and left, but thankfully the whole thing was captured on the Cafe’s camera. I’m sending you this picture as a warning…. just in case they try and pick you up too.

Honestly, some men think they are God’s gift to women.

Then I fell out of bed and woke up!!!

So how did your day start?
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Barbara Walters, of 20/20, did a story on gender roles in Kabul, Afghanistan, several years before the Afghan conflict.

She noted that women customarily walked five paces behind their husbands.

She recently returned to Kabul and observed that women still walk behind their husbands. Despite the overthrow of the oppressive Taliban regime, the women now seem happy to maintain the old custom.

Ms Walters approached one of the Afghani women and asked, ‘Why do you now seem happy with an old custom that you once tried so desperately to change?’

The woman looked Ms Walters straight in the eyes, and without hesitation said, “Land mines.”

Moral of the story is (no matter what language you speak or where you go):

BEHIND EVERY MAN, THERE’S A SMART WOMAN
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This is something to think about when negative people are doing their best to rain on your parade. So remember this story the next time someone who knows nothing, and cares less, tries to make your life miserable.

A woman was at her hairdresser’s getting her hair styled for a trip to Rome with her husband. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded:

“Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded and dirty. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking Continental,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”

“Continental?” exclaimed the hairdresser. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always late. So, where are you staying in Rome?”

“We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste.”

“Don’t go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks its gonna be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a Dump, the worst hotel in the city! The rooms are small, the service is surly, and they’re overpriced.

So, whatcha’ doing when you get there?”

“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope.”

“That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant.

Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, the woman again came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” explained the woman, “not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand new planes, but it was overbooked, and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot.

And the hotel was great! They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling job, and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!”

“Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.

Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”

“Oh, really! What’d he say?”

He said: “Where’d you get the shitty Hairdo?
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